


Smoke and Ashes

by Esteliel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Drugs Made Them Do It, LOTRO, M/M, MMO, Melodrama, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He could feel Vereyar's heart beat against his chest. One powerful thud. Another. A third.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“I should never have let you travel with me.”</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Another heartbeat, and something threatened to tear apart inside Eluivor at the pained admission.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“See what he did. He used my affection for you against me.”</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Another heartbeat, and it reverberated like the tolling of a great, bronze bell. Vereyar's voice was very soft now.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“If you touch me, we can never meet again.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> Eluiyar, because I can. Vereyar does not belong to me, but he is simply too much fun to torment. And while these are two original RP characters from LotRO, this story would never ever happen in their RP canon. Still, there is fanfic for beautifully miserable AUs.

They shared the fire with several people that evening. There was a maid from Imladris with flaxen hair in a long braid, traveling with her mother and two guards. There was a dwarf, already boasting to the maid's mother about the fine gems his own people had mined and polished and would soon sell to the Lord of the valley. There was a man, sitting by himself after the guards had given him unfriendly looks when he tried to approach the girl.

Eluivor was not pleased by the choice of companions fate had given them for the night, but there were trolls and worse in the Misty Mountains. A fire and company was the safest way to spend the night. And at least the guards and the dwarf were well-armed. The man, on the other hand... Eluivor studied his sword. The blade seemed durable enough, but the man did not look as if he knew how to wield it with any proficiency. No, he did not look as if he would be of more use than the maid if it came to a fight.

“We will leave with the first light,” Vereyar said quietly. “The roads are not safe. I want to get out of the mountains as quickly as possible.”

Eluivor nodded stiffly and saw to his horse. The charger pawed the ground impatiently, visibly unsatisfied with his lodgings for the night after the comfortable stables and meadows of Imladris. Eluivor gentled him with a touch to the fine, small head and his day's ration of oats. Once the stallion had settled down, he returned with his bedroll to the fire, annoyed to find that the man had sat down by Vereyar's side. Eluivor gave him an unfriendly look.

“That was not what I said, but you came to our fire. How could I know that you did not actually desire company for the night?”

Eluivor pressed his lips together at the man's words as he spread his bedroll next to Vereyar's. “We have all the company we need,” he said curtly, well able to imagine just what sort of conversation he had interrupted. Even the short time he had spent in Bree had taught him what depravities Men would commit in exchange for gold.

Vereyar raised a brow at his interruption, but did not deny his claim. The man smiled a little. “Ah. It is like that then. In that case, I apologize. My name is Morelm, by the way. I did not mean to interrupt your night.”

“Eluivor, of Greenwood the Great.” Eluivor gave the man a nod, not quite certain what he meant by his words, but happy enough to have the man aware that they had no need of his company or his services. The nights were cold and dangerous enough as it was. They did not need the distraction of an argument with a man who chose to earn his coin in the most dishonorable way imaginable.

Morelm's smile deepened. “Well, Eluivor, in that case I wish you a good night. I am certain that your spouse will keep you warm despite the cold.”

“My... spouse?” Eluivor frowned. “She is at home in the Greenwood, with our son. But thoughts of her will warm my heart, that is true.”

Morelm looked at the band of gold on Eluivor's finger, then turned to glance at Vereyar with a look of exaggerated surprise. “Oh! You mean, he is not...? In that case, my apologies once more. I thought it was jealousy that made you look at me with such coldness when you saw me approach him.”

Vereyar clenched his teeth, and Eluivor flushed with anger. “I might not agree with your trade, but I have spoken no words of insult. There is no need for you to insult our honor in such a way. I have seen men of your ilk in Bree, when I tarried there briefly. It is shameful, and there are more honorable ways to earn a living, but from my experience, the race of Men always prefers the easy way. “

“Now wait a moment...” Morelm's face reddened with anger as well. “You elves, always eager to find insult where none was intended, when every word you speak is an insult to us _lesser_ races! Are you calling me a prostitute?” His voice rose with disbelief, and the dwarf laughed uproariously.

“I only speak what I see. You were offering my companion your company for the night when I arrived. As I said, I know your kind.”

“And I know your kind, elf!” Morelm clenched his hands. “It was no insult. I have been led to believe that the men of your race prefer the company of their own kind – by what I have observed in Rivendell.” He gave Eluivor a smug smile. “And as you are traveling together, and neither welcome nor desire other company, even that of the fair maid over there...”

“I am wed,” Eluivor said curtly. “And an unwed maiden traveling in the company of her mother has neither need nor desire for the company of male strangers. That much should courtesy tell even you.”

“And your displeasure when I dared to talk to your... _companion_?”

“Enough.” Vereyar's voice was quiet, but sharp enough to make clear that he would brook no further argument. “Neither of you desired an insult in the first place. We shall leave it at that. We are strangers here, sharing the fire for safety. I do not desire to find friendship here. I am certain your offer of conversation was meant in kind, Morelm, but I am weary. We will travel on early tomorrow. Both of us need our sleep.”

“Of course.” Morelm's voice was cold, and Eluivor forced himself to pull his bedroll away from where he had spread it next to Vereyar's, putting more space between them. When he looked up, Morelm gave him a knowing look, and he ground his teeth, but stayed quiet.

They were not the only ones who desired to rise early. The maiden and her mother were already on their horses in the early morning twilight, nodding their farewells when Eluivor rose to see to their own mounts. Vereyar quickly and efficiently bundled up their belongings once more. Breakfast was a quick affair of bread and cheese and a wizened apple, though the man and the dwarf had woken as well by that time. In a gesture of goodwill, the man shared some of the tea he had heated over the embers that remained from the night's fire, and even Eluivor was grateful enough for the warmth of the drink in the early morning cold that he relaxed a little and nodded his thanks.

When they rode off, he was almost sad to leave the cold mountain air behind. The path soon led them through valleys and hills that sloped ever more downward, away from the snow-covered mountains that towered above them with grim resolve. The sun warmed the air, there were copses of trees now, fields of flowers next to a brook that flowed swiftly with the ice-melt from the mountains, and Eluivor soon halted to pull of his heavy, warm cloak. He wiped sweat from his brow with a sigh, then shifted uncomfortably. During the ride, thoughts of his wife had risen unbidden in his mind - conjured by the Man's insulting assumptions, perhaps.

He missed her, but even so, thoughts of her had never left in him in such a state before - not while on horse-back, at least. It would not do to have Vereyar see. Already Vereyar thought him too proud, too easily excited, too desiring of the comforts a lord of the Greenwood was accustomed to. Vereyar's accusations stung, and he had resolved to give him no opportunity for further remarks of such a kind - and yet, his body seemed to have a mind of its own today, defying all of his efforts to grit his teeth and think of the rotting flesh of orcs.

He paused for a long moment, fighting the sudden need to unlace his breeches and take care of the problem that way. Almost his hands strayed towards the lacing - but then he remembered Vereyar, and he flushed with shame and sudden, inexplicable need.

The strong, proud warrior knelt next to the stream, his arms pushed deep into the ice-water of the brook. His jaw was clenched tightly, and when he at last pulled out to wash his face with the cold water, Eluivor thought that he saw an unwonted tremor in those hands.

"Vereyar?" he asked uncertainly as he slipped from his horse's back. “Is... is everything well?”

His legs almost refused to carry him as he walked towards Vereyar. His companion did not look up at his approach. Vereyar, always so perfectly composed, was breathing heavily, and Eluivor saw that his skin was gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration.

"Vereyar?" Eluivor knelt down by his side - carefully, shamefully glad for the stiff leather of his armor that hid his state. "Are you ill?" He slowly reached out to touch his companion's brow with the back of his hand. Vereyar flinched back with wide, panicked eyes, as if Eluivor had attempted to hit him - but only for a heartbeat, then he forced his expression once more into its usual confines of calm, collected resolve.

"I am well," Vereyar said, though there was a strange roughness to his voice.

Eluivor shook his head. "Your skin is hot. I think you might be running a fever." He reached out once more, but before he could touch Vereyar's skin, the warrior's hand shot out to grab his wrist in a steely grip.

"I am well," Vereyar ground out. Droplets of sweat gleamed on his forehead, and Eluivor stared at the strong, calloused fingers that clenched around his wrist. He opened his mouth, but found that he did not know what to say. He looked into Vereyar's eyes then, for the first time feeling nothing but helplessness. He wanted... He wanted. He needed. Not his wife. Not the loveliness of her slender, soft body in his embrace, the way her pale skin would slowly flush with heat as he touched her. He wanted... him. He closed his eyes as he admitted it to himself, a sharp, painful pang of arousal setting his body on fire. He wanted to touch Vereyar.

It was madness. Utter madness. What had happened to him? Had someone cursed him?

He opened his eyes again, lips trembling as he desperately searched for something to say, fearful that any word that would escape would damn him forever.

"Vereyar," he whispered at last, his voice at the point of breaking, begging, pleading the other to understand.

"We were drugged," Vereyar said, and only the paleness of his lips betrayed the strain he himself was under. "The tea. It must have been the tea. I have thought about it for a while, and there was no other way it could have happened. The man, you remember him? Morelm? You insulted him."

Eluivor breathed heavily, his gaze drawn once more to where Vereyar's calloused fingertips rested on his pulse, grasping him with the same easy assuredness with which Vereyar would hold his two-handed axe. If these strong hands could wield such an impossible weapon with such ease... what else could these hands do?

He almost flung himself back when his arousal sprung to aching hardness at the thought of Vereyar's hands on him.

Madness. This was madness! He wanted to cry. How could he damn them so?

“Please,” he groaned softly, his voice trembling. _Please make it stop_ , was what he meant. _Please find a way to undo this_. But instead, his voice was soft, terribly vulnerable, his plea as intimate as the sound he made when he slid into Gwennael. _Please touch me_ , that was the desperate plea in his voice, and he shuddered when Vereyar gave him a sharp look.

For a moment, he imagined him there, instead of her. The strong, battle-worn body spread out on his bed where the moonlight from the open window would illuminate every hard muscle, every bone, every scar. He flinched back from the thought, face hot with the shame of betraying her like that, even in his thoughts. Was she not as lovely, as graceful, as kind as anything he could have ever dreamed of? She had given him her love, her trust – her support even after she was no longer the wife of the Lord of the House of the Pine, but just a nameless son of the Greenwood with shame and regret burned forever into his heart.

She did not deserve what he did to her, yet even the thought of her soft, flawless loveliness did not banish the fire in his blood that made him want to cry with sudden need for this man of justice and grim resolve.

No, had there ever been a man deserving of his love and admiration it was Vereyar. Vereyar, who did the impossible. Vereyar, who had saved him from the ice.

Vereyar's fingers trembled lightly against his skin. It felt like a caress, and Eluivor bowed his head, tears of frustrated need welling up. How would they survive this? How would Vereyar even be able to look at him again after this?

“I... don't know what to do,” Vereyar admitted very slowly, every word a terrible confession made from behind clenched teeth. His entire body was rigid, and his brow was gleaming with cold sweat. With horror, Eluivor suddenly remembered that Vereyar, as was his wont, had drank the dregs that remained in the teapot, as always loathe to waste food or drink. A valuable lesson in humbleness Eluivor had a hard time to learn – but one which now made him want to reach out with shocked compassion, though he knew better than to dare a touch that went further than the connection that already was there.

If he suffered – then how much worse must Vereyar feel? Yet unlike him, Vereyar had not complained. Had not near-pleaded for a touch, for release.

His heart contracted in his chest with aching, hopeless love. Would that his father had that resolve. Would that his brother had that nobility of soul. No, there was no better man than Vereyar.

“I did this to you.” His voice was broken, little more than a heat-filled groan, like a gust of wind that lifted grimy ash from a dying fire. “I did this to us.”

Vereyar swallowed painfully, his jaw working before he managed to force out words. “You were... proud. Vain. But he did this. He. It is not your fault. I know that, Eluivor. Nothing of this is _you_.”

“What can we do?” Eluivor whispered, and Vereyar's silence was answer enough. He counted his heartbeats as he breathed, feeling the tremble of Vereyar's fingertips against his skin. He could not bear even the thought of Vereyar letting go – no, even the thought of it made him awkwardly lurch forward on his knees until he bumped into Vereyar, breathing heavily as he leaned his head against his shoulder. The leather of Vereyar's armor was cold against his cheek, and smelled dark and burnt, like fire and smoke. For a moment Eluivor tried to make himself believe that he was only looking for comfort in his friend's embrace, the way he had sought his father's arms as a child when he was afraid.

He could feel Vereyar's heart beat against his chest. One powerful thud. Another. A third.

“I should never have let you travel with me.”

Another heartbeat, and something threatened to tear apart inside Eluivor at the pained admission.

“See what he did. He used my affection for you against me.”

Another heartbeat, and it reverberated like the tolling of a great, bronze bell. Vereyar's voice was very soft now.

“If you touch me, we can never meet again.”

Eluivor wept. He buried his face against Vereyar's throat, fingers clenching helpless into the stiff leather of his armor. He had damned them. He truly had. Even now, his body flushed with near-unbearable heat at the scent that clung to Vereyar's skin, the scent of leather, horses and his own musk. He wanted to promise Vereyar that he would not touch him, that his friendship was worth more to him than anything... but he could not. He could not. His need was like poison now that had spread though his veins, his body was shaking, burning, and he would do anything to make it stop...

“Don't leave me,” he begged hopelessly and opened the buckles of Vereyar's belt with shaking fingers. Beneath the armor, Vereyar was as hard as he was, and though he had looked at him before with idle curiosity when they bathed, the sudden heat and firmness of him in his hand was unlike anything he had been prepared for.

“Please, please don't,” he pleaded with the despair of the child that had lost one father already. Vereyar was so hot, so big, and he pressed closer, helpless and overwhelmed by this terrifying need.

 

He had always hoped to die in battle. He had imagined it sometimes, the way he would proudly refuse to surrender. The way he would heroically accept death where others cried and begged. Now he was pleading, making helpless little sounds as he surrendered. Like a coward, his resolve was not strong enough to withstand the fear of what might happen if he denied the painful need of his body.

He knew that his pleas were in vain when Vereyar broke as well. Vereyar groaned – a sound of surrender from a man who had never surrendered to anything in his life. It was like a dagger had been thrust right into Eluivor's heart. He knew then with a terrible clarity. Vereyar could not allow him to see him like this and remain in his company. They would always remind each other of their shame.

He shuddered when Vereyar's hands pulled on his own buckles, desperate, angry, ashamed. For a fleeting moment he hated himself for hurting the one man who had been an example to him of all that was good and right. He had taken that from Vereyar now, too.

And then even his despair vanished behind a haze of red-hot need when Vereyar's strong hand curled around him. So different to Gwennael's slender fingers. So different to the easy comfort of his own touch. Vereyar was all overpowering strength and roughness, and he gasped every time the fingers tightened, every stroke a demand as powerful as Vereyar's command on the field of battle had been.

It was all over far too soon, and they rested in each other's embrace for the few precious seconds the potion gave them, sweat-slick and out of breath, Eluivor's open mouth pressed to Vereyar's hair as he panted. He could feel Vereyar against his thigh, hot as a brand and slick with his own seed, and with a sudden, sick thrill he imagined an even deeper surrender.

 _I can't!_ he thought, _I can't, I can't!_ And then he clenched his fingers in Vereyar's hair, wild with need, inexplicably angry, and then that too vanished as they rolled in the grass, Vereyar heavy on top of him as he found himself on his belly, his wrists grasped in Vereyar's hand, held against the small of his back, and he heard himself plead for it, hated himself with what little thought was left as he pleaded and then sobbed in surprise at the pain and the heat and the overwhelming sensation of Vereyar holding him, Vereyar inside him, Vereyar who felt so good, so painfully big, Vereyar who would not abandon him, who couldn't...

He came like that, without a touch, his arms still wrestled behind his back as Vereyar slid into him with powerful thrusts, only the soft gasps against the back of his neck giving away his own tension.

When Vereyar came inside him, Eluivor arched with reawakened lust, his face wet with tears he did not even remember crying. With every heartbeat, his chest ached as if his heart was threatening to tear itself apart. For one wild moment he imagined keeping this – this one, perfect moment, Vereyar's heartbeat against his skin, their skin damp with sweat, his limbs aching from the strain of their passion, Vereyar inside him, feeling that merciless, undeniable proof of his own surrender. Helpless. But not alone.

And then Vereyar slid out of him, and he cried out, biting his lip until it bled as he fought Vereyar's hold on his wrists, rolling through the wet grass until he had kisses that were bites, kisses that tasted of blood, wild animals tearing at each other, and kisses that were bitter from tears.

Vereyar tasted like salt, smelled like the bitter wind from the east that promised war, and as he forced himself inside him at last, he wrapped an arm around his chest, feeling the powerful heartbeat, the familiar strength of the body he had admired so often from afar. He pressed his cheek to the silvery hair as he closed his eyes. A fleeting moment – the thud of one heartbeat, then another. He wondered if the memory of it would stay. He wanted it suddenly, with a desperate, greedy hunger that scared him. This one moment that was perfect – all of Vereyar's strength, all his nobility, all he had ever loved about him in his arms, spread out in surrender, his to touch, his to hold and claim and to protect just for this one precious moment.

And then the moment was gone and the terrible, painful urgency forced him to move as Vereyar groaned and pleasure came again with a release that was no release at all but just a scorching, hot pain that made his body shudder.

He had not many memories of what happened after. He remembered Vereyar's mouth, bruised and red. He remembered the way his silver hair turned a dull gray with sweat. He remembered Vereyar's sweat dripping on his body like rain as he moved beneath him, so terribly open and vulnerable and needing too much to be afraid.

He thought that remembered sleep in strong arms, the strong, warm body of a faithful companion curled against his own, hearts beating together. He liked to think that he remembered a whispered word. The lightest touch to his hair.

What he remembers is waking to overwhelming emptiness, a loneliness far worse than the wasteland of his father's death. His clothes are abandoned on the ground next to him. As he curls into them, there is the scent of smoke and ashes of a long-dead fire.


End file.
